


Reading Malfoy

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After thirteen years of hiding himself away in Muggle London, Draco Malfoy shows up again in the wizarding world--with a wickedly amusing memoir in hand. Harry doesn't want to read it. Really. He doesn't.</p><p><b>Book Mentioned:</b> <span class="u">Muggle Me (Magical Me)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Reading Malfoy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [potteresque_ire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/gifts).



> Dearest, dearest Pie, your prompt was as lovely as you are. Much love to you, and many, many thanks to the mods who graciously put up with me. Also, my deepest gratitude to my beta N for all that she does, always.

  
Cover Design by Tari Sue

**i.**

Harry has a note in his diary scribbled on every other Thursday. _Lunch with Luna - 1:30 - inSpiral._ It's a relief to escape the clamour of Diagon Alley and the stultifyingly muted dullness of the Ministry for an hour or two for the small, cramped cafe tucked alongside the Regent's Canal in Camden. Harry takes the Tube rather than Apparating; he enjoys the feeling of being anonymous in a crowd for once, rather than having all eyes on him as he walks down the street. He treasures his Oyster card because of this; one of the biggest rows he and Gin had had towards the end had been when she'd tossed it in the bin, thinking it to be rubbish. Harry knows now he overreacted, but then, by that time, they'd both been quick to lash out at the other. They'd been terrified that last month, thinking that Ginny might be preggers from a particularly vigorous bout of make-up sex. It'd been then they'd known their marriage was over. They'd spent two years trying to have a baby; when they were horrified at the prospect of actually being pregnant they'd realised that it was all irreconcilably broken between them. Harry'd moved out the next week, the flash of paparazzi cameras following him as he carried a single rucksack with his shrunken belongings into a flat near Finsbury Park. Now he sees Gin at the occasional Weasley family dinner and Christmas; she's happily remarried to Kevin Entwhistle now and they've a one-year-old daughter, Alice. Harry's happy for them. Truly, he is.

The late autumn wind is cold as Harry steps out of the Tube station. He pauses to light a fag, breathing in the acrid smoke, then blowing it out in an even breath as he pulls his leather jacket tighter around him, blocking the brisk breeze. Even on a Thursday afternoon Camden High Street is crowded with people, though its pavement is far more walkable than on weekends. The petty irritations of Ministry office politics begin to melt away as Harry, cigarette in hand, strides down the street which is still wet from the morning's rain. He passes secondhand record shops and market stalls selling linen scarves and beaten brass jewelery from India. The wind ruffles his dark hair, sending it over his glasses. He's been letting it grow lately, and the ends have started to curl, an effect that he rather likes but which sends Molly tutting about barbers and hair shears every time he comes by the Burrow. A girl in frayed jean shorts, ripped black tights, and a too tight purple wool jumper smiles at him as she passes, thick black eyeliner crinkling at the edges of her eyes. Her full mouth is plum and glossy and inviting, and a silver lip ring glints in the afternoon light. There's a blare of horn as a lorry rumbles past, a snatch of early Stones blaring through its half-opened window.

Harry drops the cigarette, grinding it into the pavement with the toe of his boot as he opens the door to inSpiral; bells jangle and warmth envelopes him. He breathes in the spicy smell of fresh-baked cakes, waving to the still spotty lad behind the counter.

"The usual, Harry?" Marcus asks and Harry nods.

"Is she here yet?"

Marcus shakes his head and begins to plate Harry's favourite Thai bean patties. Harry comes here because Luna likes it, not for the food; Harry's much more a steak and chips man than a vegan. "Your table's still open though," Marcus says with a nod towards a small table beside the paned window overlooking the canal. "Best grab it before we've another rush."

Harry exchanges a tenner for the plate of bean patties and a cider, waving away the small handful of Muggle coins Marcus offers in return. He's barely sat down when the bell rings again and Luna comes rushing in, face pink and sweaty, her blonde curls piled on top of her head, with a yoga mat and a leather satchel hooked over one shoulder.

"Marcus, darling," she says cheerfully, air kissing him across the counter, "I'm utterly famished. Give me all the spanakopita you have?"

He hands her a plate, already filled. "Bikram today?"

"I believe I might be masochistic." Luna reaches for a large bottle of chilled still water, pressing it against her flushed neck. She turns towards Harry, her Barbour jacket swinging open to reveal a pair of yoga pants and a tight grey t-shirt. "Hello, old friend."

Harry stands and kisses her cheek. "How are you?"

"The usual." Luna sits down, dropping her yoga mat and satchel to the floor as she shrugs out of her jacket. She waves a hand at her face; her engagement ring sparkling in the light from the window. "Seriously questioning my decision to try to fit into Mum's old wedding dress."

"Buy a new one," Harry says through a mouthful of bean patty. "And how is Rolf?"

Luna's face somehow manages to get pinker. She beams at him. "Lovely. Always, always lovely."

Harry feels a pang of something. Regret perhaps. He's the only single one now, out of all his friends. The rest have paired off--Luna's the last one to go, having met Rolf when the _Quibbler_ acquired Obscurus Books eighteen months ago. Luna being Luna, she'd managed in her indomitable way to convince Rolf to write an updated version of his grandfather's famous _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them._ Now they're half-a-year away from their wedding.

"So when am I going to get a manuscript from you?" Luna says lightly. She takes a bite of spanakopita, the phyllo flaking across her plate. Harry shakes his head. Luna's been trying to get him to write a memoir for months now. Nothing Harry's been able to say--even pointing out that his ability to write coherently is absolutely nil judging from Dawlish's reactions to his weekly reports at work--has kept her from asking every time they have lunch. Under Luna's direction both the _Quibbler_ and Obscurus have quickly become publishing forces to be reckoned with, much to the surprise of the _Prophet_ and Whizz-Hard Books.

"Never." Harry reaches for his cider. "And it's for your own good, given the amount of red ink my Hogwarts essays would come back covered with. Besides, everyone's read Rita Skeeter's biography."

Luna rolls her eyes. "That hack. Half of that's entirely made up and you know it."

"I like that." Harry grins at her. "Keeps people from knowing the real me." He takes a sip of cider then puts it down again, his thumb rubbing over the edge of the label. "Besides they want the larger than life Harry Potter--and even don't tell me anyone wants a day-by-day account of what Ron, Hermione and I did in the Forest of Dean during the last year of the war. I'd bore myself just thinking about it. _Day twenty-three: Still not dead. Yet another cheerful morning of staring grimly up at the tent roof, counting up the number of people who've died because of me._ Thrilling stuff there, Luna."

A blob of spinach flies across the table, hitting Harry's hand. "Sorry," Luna says, setting her fork down, face innocent. Harry's fairly certain that wasn't an accident, but he wipes it off without pointing that out. "You could always have a ghostwriter, you know--"

"No," Harry says firmly, and Luna falls silent for a moment. The rain's started up again; Harry can hear it tapping against the window behind him. Luna turns her fork between her fingers, dragging it across the top of her spanakopita.

"We've a new manuscript coming out in a couple of weeks," she says finally. "I'd really like it if you'd read it for me, maybe think about doing a blurb for the cover? I've sent the advance galleys out to a few book reviewers and it's beginning to get good press."

Harry looks at her sceptically. He wouldn't know what good press is--he avoids virtually every form of media except the _Quibbler_ out of self-preservation. "What is it?"

Luna fumbles in her satchel, pulling out a thick sheaf of paper. "It's a memoir of sorts. About a wizard living as a Muggle." She sets it on the table and pushes it towards Harry, reaching for her water without meeting his eye.

Harry understands why when he glances at the cover. " _Muggle Me_?" he asks. His voice rises. "By _Draco Malfoy_? You can't be serious. _Muggle Me_? Is the git actually trying to out-Gilderoy Gilderoy Lockhart?"

Luna shushes him, looking around the cafe. "It's an ironic title, Harry, and that sort of thing catches attention. Very important for marketing. Besides, no one knows it's by him yet--I sent a few excerpts out blind last month to build interest among some key reviewers, with the first identifying markers removed for now. They've all asked for full copies, which is brilliant. Now we've been going back and forth with Draco about whether to publish it under his name or anonymously."

"I suppose he wants the coward's way out," Harry says with a scowl. His hand settles on the title sheet, a finger just beneath Malfoy's name. He can feel the pulse of blood in his throat. It's anger, he tells himself. Just annoyance. Nothing else. "Malfoy never did want to take responsibility for anything."

"Actually," Luna says, her sharp blue eyes fixed on him, "he wants to use his name. Wants to tell his story. I'm the one who suggested my _cousin_ \--" and Harry doesn't miss the emphasis on the familial connection "--might want to protect himself from arse-witted individuals who might express that sort of tripe rather than actually reading what he wrote. He has an interesting story to tell, Harry. One that I think you might find familiar."

Harry snorts. "I sincerely doubt that. Or that anyone would find anything Malfoy might do interesting."

"Read it first." Luna points her fork at him. "Read it first and then tell me it's not a compelling story." Her face softens. "He's changed. Just like we all have over the past, what has it been now, thirteen years? We're not children any more. We're all settling down, having our own children--" She breaks off, Harry's certain, at the look on his face. "I mean, we've grown up. Draco has too. This is the first time he's come back into the wizarding world, you know, since the trials. I think it's because his mum's ill. He wants to make her happy before…" Luna looks down at her plate. "You know."

Narcissa's not well, Harry knows that. She's been living with Andromeda and Teddy for the past five years, since her divorce from Lucius Malfoy was finalised. Harry doesn't see her much; she tends to say hello, then slip away when he visits his godson, almost as if she's embarrassed to intrude on a family moment. Even if she's more Teddy's family than Harry is. She's never spoken to him of Draco, or Lucius, or of the war. Pale and fragile, she's grown to be a shadow of herself, and the last time Harry'd been to Grimmauld Place to see Teddy, just before he took the train to Hogwarts at the beginning of September, Andromeda had told him the magio-neurological Healers thought there was a tumor growing in the part of Narcissa's brain responsible for her magical control. Six months of treatment hadn't stopped the growth, and it'd been resistant to removal. Harry hadn't been able to go back since. The quiet desperation he'd seen in Narcissa's eyes this year was just too much to handle.

"Harry," Luna says.

He sighs. Luna's not playing fair--both of them are quite aware of that. Luna goes to Grimmauld Place more than Harry does, primarily to see Narcissa. Xenophilius Lovegood was Lucius Malfoy's first cousin through their mothers, and Luna has a deep and enduring devotion to family. Even family that had kept her locked in their dungeons for months. She'd forgiven them; she'd made her peace. That unwavering loyalty is one of the reasons Harry's so fond of Luna.

 _Christ._ Harry runs a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up. His eyes burn, and he feels slightly nauseous. "Fine," he says after a moment. "I'll read it. But you owe me."

Luna smiles, a serene curve of her lips. "Fair enough."

Harry glances down at the title page. There's a streak of bean patty and Thai sauce smeared across the paper. He's not certain what he's got himself into, but he's fairly certain he doesn't care for it. Not one bit.

Not one bit at all.

 

**ii.**

 

"No, Rosie," Hermione says, pushing her five-year-old daughter's hands away from the knobs on the hob. Harry hides a smile. Ever since she'd started to walk and talk, his goddaughter has been as headstrong as her mother, leading to frequent showdowns between the two.

Rose gives Hermione a stubborn, sullen glare and reaches again. "But I want to _help._ "

Hermione closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Ron--" She turns away from the bubbling pot of pasta towards the table where Harry and Ron are sitting, beers in hand.

"Right then, little girl." Ron pushes himself out of his chair and picks Rose up, swinging her to his shoulders as she kicks and howls. "Let's not annoy your mum while she's cooking dinner."

Boiling water splashes over the side of the pot. Hermione frowns at Ron as she turns the knob down. "Perhaps if her dad would learn to cook so that her mum didn't have to come home from a long day of researching law codes--"

"I offered to pick up takeaway," Ron protests. His wife quells him with another glare. Ron sighs. "Harry wouldn't have cared, would you, mate? He _likes_ curry."

"That I do," Harry says, over the top of his beer bottle. Hermione turns her frown on him, and he grins. "We could always order a pizza."

Hermione shudders. "Absolutely not. My children are eating a proper dinner--"

A small black leather shoe goes flying off Rose's white-stockinged foot, and Harry catches it with one hand, setting it back on the table. With a laugh and a _catch, Uncle Harry_ , Rose kicks her other shoe towards him.

Harry grabs it with a smile, just before it hits his chin. "You're trouble, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," Rose says in sing-song. "Trouble, trouble, bubble, bubble--Daddy, let me _down._ " She squirms in Ron's arms, pushing at him until he lets her slide down his long frame, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

"Remind me again why I had children?" Hermione asks as Rose barrels into her little brother, sending Hugo into a crescendoing wail as he hits a wall.

Ron picks up his son and bounces him, checking the back of his head. "Because you had too much wine at least twice in our marriage and forgot the contraception charm?"

"Ron!" Hermione points a wet wooden spoon at him. "Not in front of the children."

"Wine, wine, wine," Rose sings, marching around her father, her stockinged feet sliding across the tiled kitchen floor. "I like wine. Drinky-drinky wine…wine is fine!" Hugo claps and sings along with her, pushing at Ron to let him down as well. As soon as he's free, Rose grabs his hand. "We're going to watch telly," she shouts as they run down the hall to the sitting room.

Ron starts after them, but Hermione stops him with a weary wave. "Let them," she says. "I've charmed it so Rose can only watch CBBC. With any luck there'll be a Blue Peter marathon on." She holds out her hand and Ron gives her his beer. "Harry, be grateful you haven't kids. They're terrible, vile, _exhausting_ creatures." She upends the bottle and drains it, handing it back to her husband. "I'm starting to realise why mum made my dad get snipped after they had me."

"I'm scheduled for next month," Ron says to Harry with a grin. "Last pregnancy scare we had this summer did it for me. Have to tame the Weasley fertility."

Hermione gives the bolognese sauce a stir, then puts the lid back on the pot and turns the heat down. She sits next to Ron and eyes Harry. "Well, I needn't ask how work's going since I just saw you there."

"Don't remind me." Harry pushes his glasses up and presses his palms against his eyes. "I thought being Deputy Head of the Auror force would be far more interesting and less bloody dominated by politics than it is. And lets not start in on the paperwork." He drops his hands and turns an excessively morose face on Hermione who looks entirely unimpressed.

"We've been through this already, Harry," she says. "I'm not doing it for you." Harry flips her two fingers, and she just rolls her eyes. "I mean it."

Ron rocks back in his chair, the legs creaking. "You could always come over to the joke shop. You've still got an interest in it."

"Financial only," Harry says. "Sorry, mate. Not keen on shopwork."

"It's not for everyone," Ron admits. "Oh, that reminds me. Luna stopped in today to pick up some Peruvian Darkness Powder. Didn't ask why; I suspect it has something to do with Rolf and sex. Merlin only knows what those two get up to--once she told me how they used the Happy Bubble Box I was done being curious. But she did tell me to ask you if you've finished the manuscript yet?"

Hermione glances at Harry in surprise. "Are you finally writing that memoir?

"What?" Harry shakes his head. "No. Not that. I'm supposed to be reading the galleys of Malfoy's memoir for her. I've had them nearly a week."

" _Malfoy?_ " Ron and Hermione say in unison, giving him astounded looks.

"Which Malfoy?" Ron adds, frowning. "Not that wankstain Lucius? Tell me she's not still on about him being her cousin, family really matters, blah, blah, blah--"

Harry rubs his thumb over the top of his beer bottle, then down the curve of the neck. "Draco."

Ron and Hermione just look at him for a long moment.

"Oh," Hermione says finally. "I'd heard some things…" She stops, biting her lip.

"What things?" Harry leans forward, his elbows hitting the table.

Hermione shrugs. "Just things," she says, vaguely. "We keep track of the former Death Eaters at work. You know. Just in case. I'm sure the Aurors do as well, right, Harry?"

They do. Harry knows this because he's looked at Malfoy's file at least once a year. Just in case.

Ron glances between them. "Why are both of you acting so odd? It's Malfoy. I assumed he ran off with Parkinson and that lot as soon as he could and is hanging out with those bastards from Durmstrang or something."

Hermione runs a fingertip along a pink burn on the back of her hand. "No. Well. Last we heard he was sharing a flat with Parkinson, but--"

"He's living in Hackney," Harry says quietly. "Not one of the fashionable parts, either."

"But not the worst," Hermione adds. "And he has a secondhand bookshop in Islington."

Harry nods. "It's not far from Finsbury Park." He doesn't mention that he's stopped outside more than once, just looking through the front window to see a flash of white-blond hair. And he certainly would never admit that he once went in, a glamour in place, just to talk to the git, only to find out he wasn't in that day.

Hermione just looks at him. "What's the memoir about?"

"Living like a Muggle, I suppose," Harry says. "I haven't looked at it yet. Not really. Just the first few pages." That had been enough, to be honest. They were pure Malfoy, haughty and full of biting wit and snark. Except most of it had been directed towards himself, not other people. It was still Malfoy, with those bitter, almost angry undercurrents to his self-deprecation, and yet.

The rawness of those first pages had taken Harry's breath away. The description of Malfoy standing in front of a Tube station for the first time, alone, his family home ripped away from him by the Ministry as repayment for his father's war crimes, his wand snapped, his father in Azkaban, his friends and those of his parents turning their backs on him, eager to distance themselves from any known Death Eater. Malfoy hadn't written about that--he'd merely mocked himself for attempting to command the gates to the Underground to open, told of how he'd stood there for ten minutes, looking a mad fool to the Muggles until one girl, younger than him, had taken him to the ticket machines and taught him how to buy an Oyster card with the bit of Muggle money for which he'd exchanged his last few Galleons and Sickles. It'd been funny, Harry was willing to admit that. He'd laughed, until he'd felt that ache of loneliness that the words covered. It'd been too much, and he'd pushed the galley away, letting the loose pages fall off the side of the bed and onto the floor. They're still there; Harry can't bring himself to touch them.

"Malfoy as a Muggle?" Ron gets up and opens another beer, taking a long swallow before he sits down again. "I wouldn't mind reading about that. Has to be worth a laugh or two, eh, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry says after a moment. "One or two." He ignores Hermione's long, thoughtful look at him. "Doesn't really matter, though, does it? I mean, he's still a git, right? Has to be full of him taking the piss out of them in the end. Mackled Malaclaws can't change their spots and all?" No matter how much one might want them to.

Ron snorts. "Been talking to Rolf lately?"

Harry hides a smile, grateful for the change of subject. "Might have done."

"Bastard owes me twenty Galleons from our last Quidditch wager. He actually thought the Wasps would win, can you believe that? Fucking wanker." The chair creaks again as Ron leans back, lifting his beer to his mouth, and Harry marvels at how tall and broad Ron's got as they aged. The scrawny, freckled, temperamental boy of their youth is gone, replaced by a confident, successful man who commands respect within the wizarding business community. Harry wonders who Malfoy's become, if he really has somehow managed to change.

"Language, Ron," Hermione says absently, and she's still looking at Harry. "Are you going to finish the manuscript?"

Harry scrapes a thumbnail across a deep gouge in the kitchen table, left by one of Rose's infamous tantrums. "I suppose," he says after a moment. "Luna's wanting a blurb by me for the cover, though."

"Saying what?" Ron's chair thuds back down and he sets his bottle on the table. "Great story, too bad it's written by an absolute twat?"

"Ron," Hermione says again, this time a bit more fiercely, glancing down the hall to where the telly is rumbling amid Rose and Hugo's shrieks of laughter. "Besides, Malfoy's not…" She hesitates.

"What? Not horrible? Not the biggest arse in the entire country?" Ron's mouth twists. "Sure. That spot's reserved for someone like Skeeter or, I don't know, Percy." Harry winces; even thirteen years later Ron's relationship with his older brother is frigidly cool. "But Malfoy spent _years_ tormenting us, calling you _that_ word, and I'm not going to say I'm not pleased he's had to run off to the Muggle world because no one wants him here. _I_ don't want him here."

Harry looks away, taking a sip of beer. He wants desperately to have a smoke, but he's lied to Hermione and told her that he's quit again. If he pulls out a cigarette here she'll have his guts for garters. He'd quit once, years ago, when he was still with Ginny. They'd both done so, making the pact laughingly one night in a crowded club. He'd bought a cheap packet of Mayfairs at Tesco two days after moving to Finsbury Park and hasn't stopped yet, although he's moved up to buying his own leaf at the tobacconist and rolling the fags himself.

"That's not fair, " he hears Hermione say, but she's interrupted by Rose running into the room, humming the Blue Peter theme loudly, her red curls bouncing as she spins. Hugo's at her heels, shouting at his sister to slow down, please. His mother intercepts him just before he trips over his untied shoelace, and he arches back in her arms, laughing, as Ron tries to convince Rose she doesn't need a sip of his beer.

That might have been him once, Harry thinks. He'd thought it would at least. It's been four years now, and Harry's over Ginny, he knows he is. He's learned more about himself, come to terms with the fact that sometimes, maybe a little more than every so often, he fancies blokes. He's told a few friends--Ron and Hermione and Luna mostly, although Harry's fairly certain Neville suspects, and he'd felt honourbound to tell Gin two Christmases ago, thanks to one too many steaming mugs of Molly's notorious hot toddy. She'd taken it well, throwing her arms around him and telling him she was glad for him, and that she just wanted him to be happy. It's moments like those that make him miss her terribly, miss smelling the roses of her shampoo in her hair, miss lying in bed listening to her snore, miss arguing with her over the Quidditch scores and season predictions in the _Sunday Prophet_ , miss waking up on weekend mornings to the sound of her singing in the kitchen as she makes his favorite quiche, heavy on the leeks and cream. Even if it went badly in the end, even if they'd both bitterly said things they'd never forget, even if it'd been so bloody _exhausting_ arguing day in and day out that final year, Harry knows there's still some part of him that will always love Ginevra Weasley, that will always think of her as his in a way. She was his first love, the woman he'd lost his virginity to--even if Michael Corner'd already claimed hers, a point of contention that had Gin telling him sharply to get over his fucking self whenever he'd scowled about it.

He watches Ron and Hermione and their children, that ache opening deep inside him again. He'd thought he'd have a family by now. He should have. He doesn't talk about it to anyone, not even to Ron, and he doesn't think he ever will. It's too private, this small well of bitter loneliness, and he doesn't need their sympathy. Or their pity.

Instead he smiles brightly when Rose launches herself at him, wrapping her thin arms around his neck and kissing his cheek with a wet smack of lips. This is his life, he thinks, whatever it may be, and he's accepted that. Or he tries to, at least. He's happy, here in this warm house with his warm friends and the godchildren he loves so dearly. That's enough. It has to be. He doesn't know what to do if it's not.

**iii.**

Harry spends the weekend in Brighton. It's not Ibiza or Gran Canaria, but he needs to get out of London--out of _wizarding_ London in particular--and he likes the terrace at Legends during the day, lounging in a chair and watching the ocean roll in, relaxing before taking on Revenge at night in all its blacklight glory. He sucks off a blonde trick whose name he can't even remember in the loo the first night, thrilled at the feel of a swollen, wet prick against his face, at the soft groans and gasps of the boy--he can't be more than twenty or twenty-two, sneaked off from uni for a dirty weekend in Brighton's gay clubs. Harry's fairly certain he's Oxbridge from the accent, or pretending to be, at least, in the hopes of landing some bloke whose kink is posh boys. He had Harry at hello. Harry takes him back to his hotel room at Legends and fucks him into the mattress, his mouth leaving pink marks on the boy's skin that Harry knows will remain in the morning.

The boy's gone by the time Harry wakes up, and he sits up in the spunk-stained sheets, the room spinning for a moment before he swings his legs over the side of the mattress and leans down to fumble in his bag for a hangover potion. He can't drink as well as he used to; his liver's starting to age. He downs the potion, then pulls out his cigarette case, pausing when he catches sight of the white papers tucked down at the bottom of his satchel. He'd packed Malfoy's manuscript on a whim, thinking that maybe he'd read it on the terrace Sunday afternoon, while trying to recover from the previous night's debauchery.

Harry pulls the manuscript out and tosses it on the bed before going to shower. When he comes back, clad in just a pair of white boxer briefs, hair wet and glasses slightly fogged from the steam in the bath, he glances back over at it. A wave of guilt washes over him, followed by tendrils of curiosity. He cracks the window to let in some sea air and balances the sudden chill by casting a warming charm around the overstuffed chair next to it. Lighting a cigarette--a flick of his wand banishes the smoke to only God knows where; another transfigures a makeshift ashtray out of the lid to the ice bucket and sets it hovering beside the chair--Harry reaches for the manuscript and settles down to read.

He spends all day in the room, moving only from the chair to the bed when the light breeze off the sea gets too cold as another wave of rain comes in off the Channel. Malfoy's a brilliant writer, Harry has to admit. Sharp and dryly amusing in a way that Harry had never anticipated from him. Malfoy speaks honestly about how foolish he'd felt in his first year living as a Muggle, how he'd raged and despised the idiots he worked with. Skilled at nothing acceptable for Muggle work, he'd finally been sent to a job centre who'd managed, somehow, to land him a position in a warehouse, boxing orders. He writes about his first flat, a third-storey walk-up in one of the worst Hackney neighborhoods, a flat where the water was always cold and where he spent his nights listening to the prostitute above him ply her trade. Malfoy'd been lonely and miserable, until a Egyptian family down the hall welcomed him in their flat for Eid. That'd been a turning point for him, a moment when his Muggle prejudices had come crashing down around him.

And Harry believes him. That surprises him. He'd begun reading, sceptical, but Malfoy'd drawn him in with his wry admissions and sarcastically witty turns of phrase. He _likes_ this Malfoy, likes in a way that he's not entirely comfortable with. And when he reaches the chapter in which Malfoy spins the tale about the Muggle co-worker who he'd realised fancied him only when he waited after work to offer Malfoy a quick pull and tug in the back office once everyone had gone, Harry winces, waiting for the inevitable Malfoy blow-up about being solicited by a poofter.

It doesn't come. Instead, Malfoy admits taking the bloke up on the offer, which expanded into a full-blown shag across their boss's desk. One which Malfoy, evidently, had enjoyed quite a bit, given that he'd spent the next six months dating this so-called Alfie until Malfoy'd made the mistake of slipping at work and suggesting they were together. Alfie had immediately and brutally backhanded Malfoy across the mouth in front of their cohort of co-workers for, as he put it, "'living in some fucking perverted fantasy world, you sodding shit of an arsecunt,' by which," Malfoy writes, "I took it to mean we were no longer a couple. Imagine my surprise when he showed up that night at my flat, expecting a kiss and a tumble as if nothing had happened and he hadn't split my lip just hours before."

Harry sinks back against the pillows. He doesn't know what to think. Malfoy's bent, for one thing, and from what he's written, far more definitively on the bent side than Harry. He feels his cock stir, and he flushes. For fuck's sake. How pathetic is he, that the thought of Malfoy on his knees in front of some faceless Muggle bloke makes him want to shove his hand into his pants and wank until his hips push off from the filthy mattress beneath him? Harry lets his fingertips trail across the slight swell of his cock beneath the white cotton before he jerks them away. _Jesus._ This is Malfoy, he's thinking about, and Harry doesn't want to admit even to himself that sometimes the nameless men in his fantasies have white-blond hair. But more than that, what kind of arsehole does it make him that he's turned on by Malfoy's story about his bastard ex? He's ashamed and, irrationally he knows, irritated at Malfoy because of it.

"Sod it," he says and shoves the manuscript back into his satchel, Luna be damned. He doesn't need this. It's his last night in Brighton, and he wants to spend it drunk and covered in glitter, in search of some pretty young trick eager to ride his cock. He doesn't give a fuck in hell about Draco Malfoy. He never has. He never will.

 

**iv.**

The manuscript sits on his kitchen table for three weeks. Harry thinks about binning it, but something stops him each time he reaches for it. He ignores Luna's owls and misses their Thursday lunch date for the first time in five years. She tries to firecall him afterwards, but he keeps his Floomail on an automatic setting, which seems to annoy Hermione intensely every time her call is bounced into recording mode.

Harry comes home late on Friday night, exhausted. He's been in high-level meetings for most of the day, trailing Head Auror Dawlish around like some half-trained Crup. He knows they're grooming him to take over when Dawlish moves up to head the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement in a few years. Kingsley's already mentioned the possibility to him, noting that Harry'll be the youngest Head Auror in over three centuries. Harry supposes he should feel some sense of pride and accomplishment at that, but he doesn't. Not entirely. To be honest, he just feels tired. And old. He's spent all his life trying to prove himself to one person or another, and he's fucking done, Harry thinks, setting his satchel on a chair in the kitchen and shrugging out of his standard-regulation Auror coat. He tosses it over the back of the chair, not caring when it slides off, pooling into a grey and crimson puddle of lightweight wool on the floor. Grabbing a beer, he uncaps it and leans against the edge of the countertop with a sigh. He's too tired to turn on the hob, and the rank, oily smell wafting from the chippy next door had turned his stomach when he'd Apparated into his building.

The street lamps glow orange outside his window; he can see the top of the blue and white Boots sign down the lane, and he makes a mental note to pop in for some Nurofen. Potions are brilliant across the board, but every so often he just needs some damned ibuprofen for his tension headaches.

Harry's gaze falls on the manuscript sitting on the edge of the table. He takes a swig of his beer and pushes himself away from the counter, frowning. There'd been a pre-publication review of Malfoy's ridiculous book in the _Prophet_ this morning. Caustic, tongue-in-cheek, and wickedly hilarious, the reviewer had called it, "an intriguing new look at the infamous Malfoy family" that had earned five out of five owls, and Harry'd wondered if they'd read the same book. Not that he didn't think Malfoy deserved five owls, although to be honest, he was slightly sceptical. And sure, Malfoy was amusing at times. But the book--or at least the half he'd read so far--had a deep undercurrent of pain that was obvious to Harry. He couldn't imagine anyone else could miss the grief there, but there wasn't a single mention of it in the review.

A police vehicle using blues and twos wails and beeps down the street, lights flashing for just a moment past Harry's window. Harry's fingertips skim the title page; he hesitates for just a moment, then he picks it up, tucking the sheaf of papers beneath his arm as he carries his beer into the sitting room. With a flick of his wand, he sets a fire crackling in the hearth as he drops down onto the leather sofa and stretches out.

In moments he's deep within Malfoy's world again, losing himself in the familiar comfort of a quiet, cryptic melancholy until he reads himself into sleep.

He dreams of white-blond hair, sharp angles, and the stormy grey of dampered heartache.

**v.**

Black umbrella in hand, Harry stands in front of a small storefront on Upper Street in Islington, painted a deep, rich green that the drizzling grey rain only enhances. Warm light spills across piles of books in the window and causes the golden text on the glass to glow. _Malaprop's,_ it reads in large, curlicued lettering. Underneath in a smaller, blocky, almost old-fashioned typeface is _Dealers in secondhand and rare books, est. 2005._ Harry hesitates, catching a glimpse of silvery hair around the corner of a bookshelf. Part of him desperately wants to turn away, to walk the two or so miles back to his flat, popping into the Twelve Pins for a pint and the last half of the Arsenal match against Norwich City. Instead he takes a deep breath, closes his umbrella, and reaches for the door knob.

Bells jangle as Harry steps into the shop. "With you in a moment," a familiarly posh voice calls from the back, and Harry doesn't bother to answer. He looks around; the bookshop hasn't changed since the last time he came in. Of course, he was glamoured then; he feels naked now in his own face. Books line the walls, filling the long, narrow shop with the scent of aging paper. It reminds Harry of the Hogwarts library, to be honest, complete with a rolling ladder, elaborately carved, which looks like it can be zipped around the three book-filled walls. Two more bookshelves, shorter ones, stretch down the middle of the shop, and books are stacked on top of them. The wooden floors are worn oak, and they creak when Harry takes a step, but they've been polished with beeswax and an old, frayed Persian rug in dark greens and blues lies neatly beneath two enormous leather chairs forming a reading corner next to the rain-streaked window. A grey and white cat is curled in one; she opens one eye, then stretches and yawns before hopping down and heading for Harry. She rubs against his jeans with a soft meow, and Harry bends down to scratch behind her ears, inducing a rumbling purr.

"I see you've met Iphigenia," that familiar voice says behind him. "Saucy girl."

Harry looks up, his hand stroking along Iphigenia's tail, and Malfoy's there, a stack of old paperbacks in his arms. Their eyes meet, and the books slide out of Malfoy's grasp, tumbling to the floor in a torrent of soft thuds.

"You," Malfoy says blankly.

"Me," Harry agrees. He picks up the books, stacking them neatly before standing and handing them back to Malfoy, who takes them without a word and retreats back behind the till. Malfoy picks up a pencil, and it trembles for a moment in his hand before he tightens his grip on it. He flips open the first paperback and writes something in the upper right corner of the title page. Harry watches him for a moment, taking in the short, rumpled cut of Malfoy's hair--Muggle trendy, he recognises from some of the magazines Hermione still picks up from time to time when she visits her parents. Malfoy's wearing glasses, thin silver wire rims that perch lightly on the sharp incline of his nose. His dark eyelashes brush against the lenses when he blinks. He's in Muggle clothes, which shouldn't surprise Harry at all but it does. The faded jeans and black cashmere jumper suit him in some strange way, but Harry can't imagine Malfoy in anything but impeccably tailored wizarding robes.

"You can stop staring any time, Potter," Malfoy snaps, not looking up at Harry as he reaches for another book. His cheeks are flushed and the pink spreads down his throat in blotches. Harry only stares more; an embarrassed Malfoy is something rarely seen in nature. Malfoy huffs an exasperated breath and glances up, giving Harry's wet umbrella a pointed glare. "And stop dripping over my floor, you utter Philistine. Why are you here?"

Iphigenia twists between Harry's legs. Malfoy scowls at her, and Harry bites back a laugh. He disentangles himself from the cat and stuffs his umbrella into the stand beside the door before reaching into his satchel. He pulls out Malfoy's manuscript, now wrinkled and dog-eared from his reading. He'd finished late this morning, then dressed and come out without even considering why. All he knows is that he needs to talk to Malfoy. Needs to tell him he understands. All of it.

Malfoy flinches as Harry sets the manuscript on the counter between them, but he recovers quickly. "Ah," he says, cool mask slipping back into place. "Luna."

"She asked me to read it so I could give her a cover blurb." A drop of rain rolls from the sleeve of Harry's coat onto the wooden counter, sliding against a box of metal bookmarks for sale. Malfoy's nostrils flare, but he just picks the box up and wipes it dry with the cuff of his jumper.

"Of course," Malfoy says. "Idiot bint."

Harry opens his mouth to object, but he realises that the insult was given with affection. Instead, he says, "I'd like to talk." His hand settles on the manuscript. "About this."

Malfoy gives him a long, even look, then nods. "Not here." He glances back to the back of the store. "Layla," he says loudly, and there's a rustle, then the creak of a door opening wider. A girl of twenty or so comes out, head swathed in a deep blue silk hijab shot through with silver embroidery.

"You shouted?" she asks in a light voice that carries traces of Hackney. Harry realises he's met her once in Malfoy's book, as the seven-year-old Egyptian girl who'd climbed in Malfoy's lap on Eid to share her chocolate biscuit with him. She glances between Malfoy and Harry, one perfectly plucked eyebrow rising, reminding Harry of Pansy Parkinson, and Harry realises Malfoy's been involved in this girl's life since she was in primary school. His influence is evident, and Harry thinks he means that observation as a good thing.

"I did," Malfoy says, and he plucks a black wool jacket from the coat rack beside one of the leather chairs. "Watch the shop. Mr Potter and I are going to pop down to Paul for a coffee."

Layla nods and hops on the stool behind the till. "I've a project to finish tonight for my vector calculus class, remember." She hands the dog-eared manuscript back to Harry; he slides it into his satchel with a nod of thanks.

"We won't be gone that long," Malfoy says, opening the door. He looks at Harry as they step out on the wet pavement, Harry's umbrella over them both. "Layla's reading maths and statistics at City University."

Harry's impressed; the extent of his maths ability ends at keeping track of his Gringotts account every month. "She seems nice."

Malfoy nods as they walk down the street. "She's done well for herself. Brilliant at stats." A small smile quirks his lips. "If the Government doesn't scoop her up after she has a degree I'll be shocked."

They fall silent, stopping at a zebra crossing to let an already-turning car go by before moving on again. The rain falls rhythmically, splashing into puddles gathering along the kerb. "Terrible weather this autumn," Harry says, but Malfoy only shrugs.

Paul is a small, chain cafe that smells of coffee and cinnamon. Malfoy claims a table next to the window while Harry orders a large mocha, extra espresso shot for Malfoy and an Earl Grey for himself along with an order of warm chouquettes for them to share. Malfoy looks too thin, Harry thinks. He brings the steaming paper cups back to the table and sits, handing the mocha across to Malfoy.

Malfoy breathes in the coffee, looking blissful, and then takes a sip. "So." He looks at Harry, as if waiting.

Harry's disconcerted. He doesn't know what he's doing here or why he came to see Malfoy or even why he asked to talk. He covers by lifting his tea to his lips, nearly burning himself in the process. Wincing, he sets it back own. "I read your book."

"Obviously."

"It was interesting." Harry can't help but notice the way a shock of Malfoy's hair falls across one eyebrow. He'd forgotten how nearly white Malfoy's hair was. Except perhaps he hadn't. Not really. Harry thinks of the boy from Brighton with the dyed platinum hair that he had twisted through his fingers as they fucked, and his stomach tightens.

Malfoy's just watching him, half-amused, half-wary. "I suppose I should be pleased."

Harry feels a warmth spreading across his cheeks. He ducks his head, his hair falling forward. When he looks up again, Malfoy's gaze is fixed on him, then Malfoy looks away, his lip caught between his teeth. He stares out the window, avoiding Harry, his pale face reflected in the rain-streaked glass.

"What do you want, Potter?" Malfoy asks finally, voice rough.

 _You,_ Harry almost says, but his own consternation at that realisation keeps it from coming out. He picks up a chouquette and eats it, licking sugar off his thumb. Malfoy makes a soft noise across from him, but when Harry looks up, Malfoy's expression is exasperated. Nothing more.

"Manners, Potter," Malfoy says, and he pushes a paper napkin across the table towards Harry. Harry wipes his fingertips against the thin brown tissue, then crumples it in his hand.

"I liked it," Harry says after a moment. His voice catches in the back of his throat and he coughs, dropping the napkin on the table and taking a sip of his Earl Grey. "Your book."

Malfoy's exasperation turns into irritation. "So already you said."

"Actually I didn't." Harry turns his paper cup between his palms, breathing in the fragrant steam of the tea. "I said it was interesting. _And_ I liked it."

"Splitting hairs." Malfoy leans back in his chair, impossibly long and gracefully limp, one leg stretched out, almost touching Harry's. He looks over the rims of his glasses at Harry. He sighs and waves a hand. "Just spit it out, Potter."

Harry looks down at the cup in his hands. "It's getting good reviews. From what I've read you're practically the next Oscar Wilde or something."

"More a Malecrit," Malfoy says with a smirk. "Less questioning the importance of Ernest and more oh, dear, I believe je me suis Transfiguré les pieds." His voice shifts into a horrified French accent at the end, and Harry can't help but smile back at him.

"See," Harry says, "you know who Wilde is. I mean, you're Malfoy. It's weird that you know Muggle things."

Malfoy lifts his mocha. "It's odder that _you_ know who Oscar Wilde is, you Philistine."

"You already called me that," Harry points out. "And I read, thanks."

"Since when?" Malfoy gives him a genuinely curious look over his cup of coffee. "You never seemed the type in school. I would have clocked you to be the sitting in front of the telly in your pants fellow. Maybe out on the weekends clubbing at that delightful new place Pansy tells me is in Diagon?" He frowns, considering. "Albion 135 or something?"

"139," Harry corrects, absently, then he stills at Malfoy's suddenly satisfied face. Albion 139 is definitely new and definitely gay. Hardly anyone outside the wizarding queer scene knows about it, which casts a certain light on Pansy Parkinson now, explaining so damned much.

Malfoy leans forward, his elbows on the table. "I thought so." His gaze trails down Harry. "Pans told me about your divorce, you know. I had no idea it was because you're bent."

"It wasn't," Harry manages to get out. His face is hot, and he shifts in his chair. This wasn't how he'd expected this meeting to go. He'd wanted--Christ, he doesn't know. Maybe to be the one to extend some sort of olive branch, to tell Malfoy he was sorry life had been so fucking hard. Not to talk about his divorce or his sex life. Not with Malfoy. _Jesus_.

One blond eyebrow arches up. "I see," is all Malfoy says.

"I'm not," Harry starts to say, but he stops and sighs, running a hand through his hair. From the way Malfoy's eyes flick to it, Harry suspects it's standing on end. He tries to smooth it down again. "All right, fine. I'm a bit bent. Bisexual, all right? But that's not why Gin and I--"

"Oh, I'm certain you didn't cheat on her," Malfoy says. His fingertip slides around the rim of his coffee cup. "Not Harry Potter. You were too desperate to be normal, weren't you?"

The flicker of anger inside Harry fades. No one's actually said this to him. Not even Hermione; she'd been too upset at his breakup with Ginny and how it might affect her and Ron. Perhaps that not a generous thought, but it's true, Harry knows. He looks at Malfoy. "Yeah."

Malfoy nods and glances down at his coffee. "It's not easy realising you have…" His mouth twists wryly to the side. "Those sort of feelings."

"It wasn't terrible," Harry says. "I loved her. She loved me. But."

"You fought."

"A lot at the end," Harry admits. He watches the passersby through the rain-streaked window, the occasional flash of red or fuschia coats the only spots of color among the drab grey, black and navy. Londoners are a grim lot, Harry thinks.

Malfoy just looks at him for a moment. "And you had to do it all in front of wizardom, you unlucky bastard. At least I was able to have my sexual crises inside the comfortable anonymity of the Muggle world."

Harry wants to think Malfoy's mocking him, but he knows he's not. Malfoy's tone might be light, but there's a tinge of sympathy there. "Except." He stops.

"What?" Malfoy meets his gaze calmly. "I never had to worry about what my family or their friends might think of me. I never had to listen to the whispers following me through Diagon Alley, mocking me for being one of _them_ , and never knowing if they meant a Death Eater or a poofter." He crumples a napkin between his fingers and begins to shred it, tiny bits of paper floating to the table.

"It's not any easier in the Muggle world," Harry says, his voice quiet. "I know you wanted those bits of the book, the ones about the clubs and the boys you shagged in loos and in cars--"

"Don't forget the Tube." Malfoy drops the napkin. "I'm rather pleased with that achievement."

Harry just gives him a pointed look. "You weren't just looking for a shag, Malfoy. Were you?"

There's a heavy silence between them. Malfoy refuses to look away, but Harry can see a tense flutter across his throat before Malfoy's bravado kicks in again. A slow smile curves Malfoy's thin lips. "Interested?"

 _Christ, yes._ "No." Harry's rather proud of the firmness of his reply. "Look, you can hide all you want behind your sarcasm-as-a-defense-mechanism, and yeah, I've read those kinds of books too, Malfoy. Maybe the wizarding world doesn't quite understand Muggle psychology, but I spent years after the war looking at books about PTSD that Hermione shoved in front of me and talking to people, yeah, all right, _therapists_ and maybe not all of it took, but some of it did, and I can see when somebody's hiding the fact that being away from his mum and having his dad spend some time in prison and being cut off from the society he grew up in _and_ finding out that, yeah, maybe he likes blokes a bit more than girls…" Harry breaks off, biting his lip. Malfoy's looking at him in shock, his hand on the remnants of the napkin. Harry takes a slow, deep breath. "I'm just saying, maybe it wasn't all the oh-so-drolly-amusing life you made it out to be, was it?"

A faint pink spreads across Malfoy's cheeks. "I've no idea what you're on about--"

"Malfoy, come on," Harry says. He lays his hand over Malfoy's. "I get it. I'm broken too."

With a quick inhale, Malfoy stands, jerking his hand from beneath Harry's. "Thank you for the coffee," he says, his voice tight and high. "But I really must get back to the shop before Layla has to leave."

"Malfoy." Harry pushes his chair back, but Malfoy's already picked up his half-empty cup.

"Another day, perhaps," Malfoy says, overly polite, and then he's gone, out the door and into the rain before Harry can stop him. His black coat blends into the wet blur of pedestrians, the silvery gilt of his hair disappearing a few shopfronts down.

Harry slumps back into his chair. It'll do him no good to follow, he knows Malfoy well enough to realise that. He rubs one hand over the back of his neck, then slides it around to press against his mouth in frustration. He was an idiot to push. He doesn't know why he did, just...Merlin's fucking tits, Malfoy maddens him.

Still, he knows what he has to do. He fumbles in his satchel and pulls out piece of paper--ironically enough the title page of Malfoy's manuscript. Taking a self-inking quill from the front pocket, while silently cursing himself for not bringing a biro, he settles in to write a blurb.

At least Luna will be pleased.

**vi.**

"Harry!" Luna flies across the hall and throws her arms around him, her blonde curls bouncing against her shoulders. She steps back and eyes him up and down. "You look marvelous."

Harry smiles at her, a bit self-consciously, and smoothes down the front of his jacket. He's chosen a Muggle suit for tonight; it seemed appropriate for the occasion. Judging from the rather bizarre costumes around him, he's not the only one. You can definitely tell who's spent some time in the Muggle world and who hasn't. At least it's become trendy for his generation to venture out past Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade now. "Thanks for the invitation," he says as Luna tucks her arm beneath his. Her green flocked dress is snug and short, showing off all her yoga work to its best advantage.

"As if I wouldn't make certain you'd be here." She beams up at him. The light from the candles floating above them catch the green glass of her leaf earrings, sending sparkles through them. "You do realise advance sales went through the roof once your name was attached, yes?"

"I'd heard," Harry'd said dryly. The morning after the _Prophet_ had run Luna's advert for _Muggle Me_ with his blurb down at the bottom in ridiculously large type, he'd had a Howler at his kitchen window from Pansy Parkinson, letting him know in rather impressively vulgar language exactly how little Malfoy needed his help and suggesting that he keep his damned opinions to himself for once. The tirade had actually cheered Harry, and he'd spent the rest of the day imagining a sulky Malfoy having drinks with Parkinson, complaining about that idiot, Potter.

Luna leads him into the grand ballroom of Malfoy Manor--and Harry's still not entirely certain who in the Ministry she'd charmed into letting her throw the launch party for Malfoy's book in his former home. The Manor's been locked up for over a decade now, having reverted back to the Ministry upon Lucius Malfoy's imprisonment. Tonight, however, it's ablaze with candlelight, and the ballroom is filled with a crush of wizarding society's elite. A black-robed waiter offers a floating platter of champagne flutes to Harry, and he takes one, downing half of it in one gulp.

A huge cut-out of the book's cover hovers against one of the walls; Malfoy's cool gaze taking in the proceedings, _Muggle Me_ glittering over him in brilliant white type. Harry has the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that the huge Malfoy is watching him as Luna guides him through the throng, stopping every now and then when someone calls Harry's name.

The champagne's nearly gone by the time they make it across the room, and Harry won't admit to himself that he's been looking for a pale blond head the entire time, to no avail.

"Isn't Malfoy here?" he asks.

Luna waves her flute of champagne, spilling some. "Here or there," she says vaguely.

"Potter."

Harry turns, surprised, to find himself face-to-face with Pansy Parkinson, dressed in the tightest black robe he's seen on a woman. "Nice Howler," he says, trying to avoid looking at her cleavage.

Parkinson smiles and tucks a stray lock of her straight black bob behind one ear. "I was rather pleased with it." She glances dismissively at Luna. "Your fiancé just arrived, and the last I saw Romilda Vane was talking to him. A little too closely, if you catch my meaning."

Luna frowns. "Rolf wouldn't--"

"He was saying something about Peruvian Darkness Powder. Away with you, Lovegood." Parkinson waves Luna off. "Besides, I want a word or two with Potter here."

Harry nods at Luna, and she slips away, disappearing quietly into the crowd, but not before giving Parkinson a mildly annoyed frown.

"Terrifying," Parkinson says with a roll of her eyes. "You'd think I was about to flay you open publicly."

"One never knows with you," Harry points out.

Parkinson shrugs, then takes Harry's empty flute from him, setting it on a passing tray and grabbing a full one. She takes a sip from it, leaving behind a smudge of bright red lipstick before handing it to Harry.

"Thanks," he says, but he doesn't bother wiping away the lipstick. Harry glances around the room again. Still no Malfoy.

"He's upstairs," Parkinson says, watching Harry closely.

He gives her a bland look. "Who?"

Parkinson snorts. "You're not fooling me, you realise. Draco might be an idiot, but I'm not."

"That sounds ominous." Harry takes a sip of champagne. It's terrible, really. All wine at functions like this is, he's found over the years. At least this vintage is slightly less offensive than the cack the Ministry summons up from the depths of the cellars. All British, of course, which means it's nothing but the shittiest of fermented grapes from Merlin only knows where, although every so often at the smaller events, there might be a decent bottle of English wine, perhaps from Kent.

"It might be." Parkinson eyes him. "He's a lot more fragile than he lets on."

Harry lowers his glass. "I know."

"Yes. Well." Parkinson opens her clutch and looks into it, before snapping it closed again. "Christ, I'd kill for a cig right now."

"Me too," Harry admits. "I left mine at home. Didn't seem to be the place."

"It's not." Parkinson glances around, a look of distaste on her face. "Look at them all, like little piggy pigs, so thrilled to be tromping through the infamous Manor like this. A hundred Galleons a head, you know, all but those of us on Draco's list. He insisted on them paying, you know. He figured that if they were going to come put their grimy little fingers on his family's things, they'd damned well pay for the privilege." Her face softens. "He's trying to help pay for his mother's medical bills. Seems as if the free health care for all the Ministry's championed for decades suddenly doesn't quite fully extend to some of us."

Andromeda had said as much to Harry the last time he'd been by, just a few days ago. Narcissa could barely get up from bed now, only making it downstairs three or four hours each morning before having to retire back to her bedroom. And her care had exceeded what St. Mungo's was willing to provide without outside funding. Harry hopes Malfoy never finds out that he'd transferred five hundred Galleons from his Gringotts vault to Narcissa's account at hospital.

"How is she?" Harry asks, even though he knows.

Parkinson's fingers tighten on her clutch. "Not well." She hesitates. "He wants to talk to you. He asked me to find you and send you up."

Harry stills. He can feel the pulse pounding in his throat. "Did he."

"If you hurt him, I'll kill you," Parkinson says softly, fiercely. "I don't care that you're Harry sodding Potter."

It's a threat Harry takes seriously. "I know."

"Upstairs," she says. Her tone takes on a weary edge. "You'll find him. It's the only open door."

"Thank you," Harry says, but she shakes her head.

"Don't." She glances towards the side door, away from the throng. "He needs to be back down here in half an hour. I can hold Lovegood off that long." Parkinson straightens her shoulders and gives him a push. "Go on."

Harry doesn't wait. He slips out of the room and up the curving, wide staircase, his boots thudding against the smooth white marble. The carpet at the top of the steps is soft and thick and a deep, saturated blue, dark against the cream and gold striped walls. Lamps flicker in sconces, and Parkinson was right; there's only one door open down the long expanse of the hallway, all the way at the end. Stopping before it, Harry takes a deep breath and knocks against the door frame.

"Come in," Malfoy says from the dim interior, and Harry steps into the room. It's round and dark, the only light coming from a curved bank of windows along one side. Malfoy's standing there, the moonlight shining in his pale hair.

"You called?" Harry asks mildly, shutting the door behind him. A quiet Lumos and a flick of his wand sends the wall sconces sputtering to life. Malfoy lifts a glass to his mouth, and Harry recognises the warm glint of whisky in the light.

Malfoy doesn't turn around. "Thank you," he says. "Neither Pansy nor I have a wand." He sets the whisky glass down on a table beside the windows. Harry can see Malfoy's reflection faintly in the dark glass. It makes him look paler than usual. "I used to spend rainy afternoons up here, you know. It was a brilliant room for reading in. Lovely view of the garden during the day." He laughs bitterly and runs a finger along a dirty window sash. "Now it's locked away, gathering dust. At least until Luna offered Minister Shacklebolt a substantial donation to the fund for Hogwarts scholarships. Amazing what money can do, Potter." He wipes his finger on a limp velvet curtain. "My father knew that once. Pity he decided to fund a nutter."

"Yeah, it's a terrible shame." Harry takes a seat on one of the long, overstuffed white brocade couches. He drains his champagne flute and sets it on a side table. "Parkinson said you wanted to talk."

"I suppose." Malfoy turns then. He's in a Muggle suit, not that dissimilar from Harry's, although Malfoy's shirt is a pale lavender with a darker purple knotted tie rather than Harry's light blue and gold combination. He looks at Harry. "You know my mother's dying."

Harry just nods. There's nothing more to say. Malfoy doesn't need him to say he's sorry; somehow Harry knows that.

Malfoy walks towards him, perches hesitantly on the opposite end of the couch. He doesn't say anything for a moment. Harry watches one of the sconces die down, then sputter back again, the flame burning a bright blue before settling back into its usual gentle flicker. "I don't know what I'll do when she's gone," Malfoy says finally. "I suppose that's why I wrote the book. Because I thought it might be my last chance to tell her what it was like, what I learnt." He looks up at Harry. "I wanted her to laugh. But she saw past me too. Just like you."

"It broke her heart," Harry says, and Malfoy gives him a look of surprise.

"Yes."

Harry nods. "It's there if you look, Malfoy. Right under the surface. All that pain." He stops, looking blindly at his discarded champagne glass and Parkinson's blood-red lipstick. "You think you can hide being unhappy, and most of the time you can, but every so often someone who's been in pain too can see past everything." He glances up at Malfoy. "They see you."

"No one sees me," Malfoy says. His voice is a bare whisper, but he's looking at Harry, his eyes shadowed. "No one ever has."

"Parkinson does." Harry reaches out and takes Malfoy's hand in his. He holds his breath, but Malfoy doesn't pull away.

Instead, Malfoy lets his fingers curl lightly around Harry's. "Not in that way."

Harry strokes his thumb against the side of Malfoy's palm. Malfoy flinches but keeps his hand in Harry's. "I think I do," Harry says.

Malfoy breathes out. "I don't want you to."

"You can't stop me." Harry's thumb slips down to Malfoy's wrist, smoothing across his pounding pulse. Malfoy's skin is so pale that Harry can see the blue veins beneath his stroking fingertips.

"I know," Malfoy says. He's moved closer somehow, and Harry's not certain if he slid towards Malfoy or vice versa. He doesn't care. There's something breaking loose inside of him, something going from cold to warm, from hard to--not quite soft, but softening, perhaps.

"Christ, Draco," Harry says, and then his hand is on Malfoy's cheek--no, _Draco's_ cheek, and his mouth is on Draco's mouth, warm and wet and sending deep, soul-wrecking shivers through his entire body.

Draco makes a noise, that same noise from the coffee shop, but wilder, almost anguished. His hands slide up Harry's arms, over his shoulders, pulling Harry onto him as he falls back against the couch. "Harry," he says. His teeth nip Harry's bottom lip. " _Harry._ "

This feels right, and Harry has no idea why. He doesn't care. Instead, he tangles one hand in Draco's hair, holding him still as he kisses him roughly, deeply, his tongue pressing against Draco's as Draco digs his fingers into Harry's shoulders, the hang of the jacket be damned. Harry reaches down and unbuttons the jacket, helping Draco to slide it off his shoulders. It ends up on the floor, and Draco raises up to kiss him as Harry pulls back. Somehow Harry gets Draco's jacket off, or mostly off, at least. One sleeve hangs and Harry has to pull Draco's hand away from his shoulder to tug it off completely. Draco's face is flushed, his mouth swollen and wet, and when he reaches up to pull Harry back onto him, Harry doesn't protest.

Draco shifts and moans beneath him; when he spreads his legs Harry can feel the heat of Draco's cock. "You know," Draco says breathlessly, his fingers carding through Harry's hair, "I didn't put this in the book, but I'd go to Muggle clubs some nights and look for a dark haired lad with impossibly, stupidly green eyes to shag me senseless in the back rooms."

Harry can't help the shudder of want that goes through him. He rocks against Draco's hips. "Did you?"

"I did." Draco's mouth slides along Harry's jaw. His teeth nip lightly at Harry's skin. "Blaise always told me I was pathetic." He pulls back and looks at Harry, oddly vulnerable. "Am I?"

"Only if I am too." Harry reaches between them and presses his palm against Draco's swollen prick, letting his fingers rub the soft wool of Draco's trousers against it. Draco hisses and his hips buck up. Harry grins. "I used to look for the posh blonds who'd let me suck them off in a loo stall."

"Harry," Draco breathes out, and Harry slides down him, his fingers tugging at Draco's trouser zip. Shifting Draco's pants out of the way, Harry pulls Draco's cock through the gaping woollen hole, his fingers stroking along the shaft as he takes the slick head into his mouth. Draco cries out, his hands flexing and grasping at Harry's shoulders as he pushes Harry's jacket off. Harry shrugs out of it, letting it fall to the floor in a quiet thud of wool and wand.

This is better than the trick in the loo, Harry realises. This isn't some faint shadow of Draco, some too thin twink with soft blond hair whispering filthy things in Harry's ear as he pushes him up against a stall wall covered in grafitti. This is Draco, hot and arching beneath him as Harry sucks him, making quiet noises as his hand slides over the back of Harry's head, fingers tangling in Harry's hair.

Draco tastes salty-bitter, a heady mix of musk and skin and sweat that makes Harry want to bury his face in the crisp dark blond curls at the base of Draco's cock. Harry pulls Draco's trousers wider, pushing the soft cotton of Draco's pants further down, the elastic catching below Draco's balls, lifting them higher. Harry fingers them, rolling them across his palm, and he can't believe he's doing this, that he's the one making Draco Malfoy of all people writhe and groan like this. His sixteen-year-old self would be horrified. Or intrigued.

Harry pulls back, and Draco tries to grab him, tries to tug him closer again, but Harry resists. Draco looks debauched, spread out like this, his heavy, red prick wet with Harry's spit, his trousers gaping, his shirt pushed up over his pale stomach.

"Fucking hell," Harry manages to get out, and then Draco's reaching for Harry's shirt, tugging it out of Harry's trousers, then fumbling for the zip.

"Have you ever wanked to this?" Draco asks, his voice cracking as he pushes Harry's trousers over his hipbones. "Because I have, every time Pans brought one of those fucking wizarding tabs home and you were on the cover looking so bloody smug and ridiculous--" He breaks off in a moan when Harry's fingertips brush the swollen head of his cock. "Jesus, Potter."

Harry can barely breathe. Draco's hands are on his hips, thumbs sliding beneath the waistband of his pants, warm against his skin, almost brushing the base of his hard prick. His pants are a heated swell of white cotton through the flies of his trousers. "Do you know how many times you mentioned me in your book?" Harry asks.

Draco looks up at him. He licks his bottom lip, and Harry wants so desperately to lean in and suck that curve of pink skin, so he does, his cotton-covered cock rubbing against Draco's. Draco wraps his arms around Harry's neck, holding him into the kiss as he rolls his hips up once, twice. Harry shudders with want.

"How many times?" Draco says into Harry's ear. He nips the earlobe gently. "Once?"

Harry turns his head and catches Draco's mouth again, kissing him deeply. "Six," he murmurs. "Eight, if you count the times you didn't use my name."

Draco smiles against Harry's throat. "Which means that equates to this?" He pushes his hips up again. Harry groans.

"Seems fairly straightforward to me," Harry chokes out, and then he reaches between them, pulling his cock from his pants. He presses it against Draco's, sliding them together. Draco's eyes flutter closed and he arches his neck, giving Harry the perfect opportunity to suck that pale stretch of skin.

Draco turns his head, letting Harry bite along the curve of his jaw. "So you _were_ interested," he says, breathing out. His prick is hard and hot against Harry's, and Draco shifts, pushing into Harry's hips once more. "That day. In Paul's--"

Harry strokes their cocks together, and Draco hisses. "Yeah," Harry says roughly, and his hand moves more quickly, smearing wet slickness from the heads of the pricks to the bases. 'I--" He swears as Draco twists beneath him, his fingers digging into Harry's arms.

"Say it," Draco says, eyes bright and wild. "Say what you wanted--"

"To throw you across that table." Harry's thumb slides over the damp slit at the head of Draco's cock, then over to his own. His prick throbs. Draco rolls his hips again, spreading his thighs wider, one foot falling to the floor. Harry raises up to give his hand more room to move. "I wanted to strip you bare and suck your cock and your balls and your arsehole until your prick spat spunk across the whole damn cafe, and everyone was watching me make you come in front of them and they couldn't take their eyes off you because you're the most gorgeous creature when you're being fucked--" Harry groans, his body shaking. "I've watched you, you now, through the shop window, and then I'd go home and I'd try not to touch myself but it never lasted, and I'd spend an hour fucking my pillow and wanting it to be your arse--"

Draco cries out, his body tensing beneath Harry's, and then hot spunk spatters across Harry's hand and onto his shirt. "Yes," Draco says, gasping, leaning up to kiss Harry's cheeks, his chin, his mouth. "Yes, please. My arse. There's no lube--"

"Don't need it." Harry pulls Draco up against him, kissing him eagerly, then manoeuvring Draco so that he's turned around, on his knees, elbows on the arm of the couch, his trousers and pants ruched down around his thighs. "Just want to come on you." Harry's palms smooth across Draco's arse, pushing its pale globes apart. He bends down and runs his tongue along the crease of skin, over the pink puckered hole, and Draco trembles beneath him.

"Harry," Draco says, voice high and tight.

Slowly Harry raises up again, his hands pushing Draco's shirt higher up his back. Draco's spine is a long graceful arch of bony knobs and alabaster skin that Harry can't resist trailing his mouth along. He reaches around to run two fingers along Draco's spent, sticky cock. "I did that," he says, and he doesn't bother to keep the smugness out of his voice. He pulls his hand back and licks one finger clean before leaning in to smear the remaining remnants of come over Draco's mouth. Draco bites his fingers gently, then sucks them. It goes straight to Harry's cock, and he curses, his hips bucking against Draco's bare arse.

Harry can't control himself. He ruts against Draco, rubbing his aching prick over Draco's soft skin, letting it slide over and over through Draco's crease. Draco pushes back like a whore, begging Harry to come on him, telling him how much he needs Harry's spunk on his skin, over his hole.

"Please." The whine in Draco's voice makes Harry's hips stutter. This is better than any porn Harry's watched--and he's spent most of his evenings since he and Gin were done with some form of wizarding pornography or another. Some nights he even resorts to Muggle videos, with their ridiculous tits and washboard abs.

Another thrust of Harry's hips, and his body tightens and holds, every muscle trembling as he arches forward, coming hard and fast across Draco's flushed skin.

Harry falls onto Draco's back, pushing him into the arm of the couch. They lie there, breathing hard, their bodies still thrumming.

"We ought to have done this ages ago," Harry says finally, his mouth pressed against Draco's hair.

Draco snorts. "I'm not certain we should have done it now," he says against the rolled couch arm. He turns his head to look at Harry. "This was probably a terrible idea."

"Probably," Harry agrees. His hand settles on Draco's hip, fingers tracing small circles. "You hate me after all."

"I do."

Harry bites the back of Draco's neck. "It could just be for the sex."

Draco shifts, turning uncomfortably under Harry. "No strings?"

"Why not?" Harry sits back, letting Draco turn to face him. His eyes flick to Draco's prick, half-swollen again. "We've been fucking complete strangers. Why not just eliminate the middleman?"

"Straight to the source, you mean?" Draco leans back, letting Harry look his fill.

"So to speak." Harry can't stop himself from sliding his fingertips along the jut of Draco's hipbone to the base of his cock. His thumb strokes along the shaft. "If you're interested."

A small smile curves Draco's mouth. "I could be." He catches Harry's mouth with his, kissing him softly.

"Oh." The soft voice from the hall tears Harry away from Draco. Luna's standing in the doorway, an amused look on her face. Had half an hour gone by so quickly? "I didn't realise I'd be interrupting. Pansy said--"

"That bint." Draco rolls his eyes. "She bloody well knew what I was--" He stops, a flush rising on his cheeks.

"What you were doing?" Harry looks at him. "You mean, you planned a shag?"

Draco sniffs. "Given that you're a loose cannon, Potter, I could hardly _plan_ it. I was merely leaving the possibility open."

Harry fumbles for his wand, caught in a pocket of his jacket, and casts a cleaning spell on them both. "I suddenly feel cheap." He hides a grin at Draco's annoyed glare. "In a good way."

"Better." Draco stands, calmly, not seeming to care that Luna is watching with great interest as he tucks his cock back into his pants, straightens his shirt, and does up his flies again. "Well?" he demands, glancing back at Harry. "Are you going to escort me back downstairs for my night of triumph, which I assume is why my dear cousin here showed up looking for me?"

"Among other things," Luna says. "You've an interview with the WWN, for one."

Draco makes a disgusted face. "Not with Glenda Chittock, I hope. Such an annoying cow, even for a presenter." He snaps his fingers at Harry. "Clothes on."

Harry glances at Luna. "Privacy, please?"

"Why?" Luna asks serenely. "I've already seen Draco."

" _Luna._ "

She sighs and turns around. "Fine, but I'm not leaving without you both. I don't trust you not to climb into each other's trousers again."

As much as Harry hates to admit it, she has a point, particularly judging from the lewd look Draco turns on him as he stands up. He pulls his clothes back together, then casts an anti-wrinkle charm on both himself and Draco. "We're decent," he says, and Luna turns back around, holding her hands out to both of them.

"I'm quite pleased, you know," she says, tucked between them, as they start down the hall. "I think it's rather lovely you found each other again. I was hoping that might be the case."

Harry gives her a dubious look. "Is that why--"

Luna pats his arm. "Does it really matter?"

He glances over her head at Draco quirks one sardonic eyebrow. No, he supposes. It really doesn't. Not at all.

Harry smiles.

 

**vii.**

"Uncle Harry!" Rose greets him at the door, her arms thrown wide. Harry scoops her up, nuzzling her neck until she laughs and squirms. She stills when she sees Draco behind him, pale and nervous, a perfectly wrapped present in his hands, curled ribbons of green and purple trailing across his wrists. It'd taken Harry two hours today alone to convince Draco to come with; Draco'd changed his mind at least once a day for the past two weeks.

Still he was here, even if they'd had a bit of a row before leaving Harry's flat, and even if Draco's mouth still held the residual pinched, bitchy contortion that indicated his extreme displeasure.

"Is that for me?" Rose asks, pointing at the present. She almost shy, which surprises Harry. He's never seen her cautious before.

One corner of Draco's mouth quirks. Harry relaxes. "Is it your birthday?"

Rose nods. "Hugo's angry 'cause he's not getting any presents and I am, but that's because I'm the princess. Daddy says so."

"Does he?" Draco holds out the present to her. "Princesses most certainly require tribute."

"What's riboot?" Rose squirms and wiggles her way out of Harry's arms, taking the present when she hits the floor. She grabs Draco's hand, pulling him into the flat. "Is it like Mummy's treacle tart 'cause that's my favorite. Do you like treacle tart? Uncle Harry does, don't you, Uncle Harry?"

Harry tries not to laugh at Draco's alarmed face as he closes the door behind them. "I certainly do."

"Harry!" Hermione comes out of the kitchen, an apron loose around her neck, the strings dangling on each side. She stops and takes in Rose and Draco. "Ah. Draco. I see you've met my daughter."

"Yes." Draco looks disconcerted. "It appears I have."

"I like him, Mummy," Rose states. "He brought me a present." She looks up at Draco. "Is it a good one?"

"Rose!" Hermione frowns at her. "Manners."

Draco leans down and whispers conspiratorially, "It is. And your Uncle Harry might want to take credit for it, but don't listen to him. It was entirely my idea."

Rose looks thrilled. "Come open it with me!" She tugs him into the sitting room, her little fingers still tight around his wrist. "Move, Hugo! I have another pressie!"

"Merlin help us all," Hermione murmurs, and she slides an arm around Harry. "You look well." A sly smile lights up her face. "Given that we've barely seen you in two months."

Harry grins back at her. "Shagging does that for a bloke."

They stop in the door of the sitting room. Rose twirls around, dress spinning out from her waist to show the tops of her striped leggings, with Draco and Harry's gift of sparkling pink and green net fairy wings Draco had found in a Muggle shop on Islington High Street sprouting from her shoulders. Harry's contribution had been to charm them so that every time Rose jumped she hovered a few inches off the ground.

"Look, Mummy," Rose shouts, as she tries them out. Her feet kick the air as the wings flap behind her. "I'm a fairy princess today."

Hermione sighs. "I see my attempt to subvert traditional gender roles is not one supported by your godfather and Draco."

Rose kicks her way over to Draco before the wings give out and she floats down to the floor. She wraps her arms around his neck. "Draco's my favorite now."

Hugo protests. "Mine!" He clambers up into Draco's lap, fingers wet from his mouth twisting into Draco's jumper. Harry can't stop the laugh that bursts out; Draco's horrified face is priceless.

"I've been usurped, I see," Harry says, and Draco gives him a dark look.

"Not for long." Draco disentangles Hugo from his jumper and sets him on the couch beside him. Hugo promptly sprawls, draping his socked feet over Draco's thigh.

Hermione shakes her head and slips the apron over her head, wadding it in one hand. "They're like kittens," she says apologetically to Draco. "They tend to crawl all over people who aren't fond of children."

"I wouldn't say I'm that." Draco pulls Rose back down to the floor from where she's hovering next to him again. "I've done my fair share of child-minding in recent years."

Harry thinks of Layla. Draco hasn't talked a lot about his relationship with the Badawi family, but he's said enough that Harry knows he'd spent a good deal of time looking after Layla and her brothers while their parents worked. Harry watches the way Draco touches Rose's shoulder lightly, smoothing her red curls without seeming to. When he looks back at Hermione, she seems surprised and rather pleased.

There's the sound of a flush and running water, and then the door to the loo down the hall opens. Ron comes out, still doing up his flies with one hand. In the other is a familiar book.

"Really, Ron," Hermione says in despair.

Ron lifts the book. Draco's face looks out from the cover, resigned. "What? I needed toilet reading material, and if Harry's going to shag the bastard, I might as well catch up on his life." He looks at Harry. "Although I have to say there are some things that you gay blokes do that I just do not need to know about."

"Best skip chapter fifteen then," Draco says dryly from the sitting room.

"Too late. Absolutely traumatised." Ron brushes past Harry and hands him the book. It's dog-eared, nearly at the end. Harry exchanges a long glance with Hermione.

"Don't even ask," she says. "I'm almost done cooking, want to join me in the kitchen for a celebratory glass of wine?"

Harry smiles, then looks back into the sitting room. Ron's picked Hugo up and has sat down on the couch alongside Draco, his son draped across his lap. Hugo plops his feet back onto Draco's thighs. Draco doesn't move them.

"Malfoy," Ron says as he picks up the remote for the telly.

"Weasley." Draco gives him a cautious, wary look.

Ron clicks a button and the telly flashes on. "You've _Prank Patrol_ or _Doctor Who_."

"Not _Doctor Who_ ," Rose shouts at the same moment Draco says, "You watch _Doctor Who_?"

Hermione looks at Harry. "We should probably escape before the meltdown begins."

Harry doesn't disagree. He's seen Rose at her absolute worst.

"Love," Ron says, pushing Hugo's foot out of his face, "bring us a couple of beers?"

"Your Accio is perfectly functional, Ronald Weasley." Hermione has _that_ tone in her voice, the one that Harry knows full well means she's going to start throwing around words like _patriarchy_ and _modern marriage roles_.

Ron eyes Harry, but Harry cuts him off. "She's right."

"Don't look at me." Draco lets Rose crawl over the couch arm beside him. "No wand."

"That's a lazy bastard excuse," Ron says lightly. "Wandless magic, arsehole. Aren't your lot supposed to be brilliant at it?"

Draco tenses for a moment, then settles back into the couch. "Not a Malfoy talent, I'm afraid. We leave that sort of thing for idiot Gryffindors." His gaze is warm when he looks at Harry. Draco doesn't know that Harry plans on getting Draco permission to buy another wand; Harry doesn't care if he has to shout down Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. Or the whole damned Wizengamot.

"Do you really want a beer?" Harry asks Draco, and when Draco nods, Harry shrugs. "I'll bring you one."

"What about me?" Ron whinges, but Harry just takes Hermione's balled up apron from her and throws it at Ron's head. It lands on Hugo. He shrieks and throws himself against Draco's side.

"Accio, arsehole," Harry says.

Ron throws the apron back at him and Harry catches it in one hand. "Cold. Truly cold." He looks over at Draco. "Are you sure he's worth it?"

Draco glances between Harry and Ron. "Have you seen his--"

"Draco Malfoy," Hermione says sharply, and Draco gives her an amused smirk. "You're terrible."

"I know."

Harry just laughs.

"You and Malfoy." Hermione shakes her head, as she and Harry move towards the kitchen. "It's oddly not as surprising as it seems. Are you still just shagging? Because Luna mentioned the last few times she's firecalled you, Draco's been there."

"We're…" Harry pauses as two bottles of beer come whizzing out of the kitchen, nearly decking him. He's not certain he want to name what they have, he and Draco. It's sex, sure. Brilliant sex, for the most part, except when Draco's in a mood. Which he often is, Harry has to admit. They fight frequently, but Harry doesn't mind it as much. It feels like foreplay in a way and in another, like he's slowly peeling through the layers of Draco Malfoy, until he gets to the true Draco, the one who doesn't push him away or mock him or tell him what a fool he's being for giving a damn. Harry likes the sparring; he likes the way he feels alive when he and Draco are snapping at each other, then suddenly kissing.

It'll change, he knows. Relationships always do. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse. Harry's not willing to call Draco the one yet. He might never be at that point. But he knows he likes having Draco around, and Draco seems as if he wants to be around Harry. They spend most nights together--mostly at Harry's flat, though some nights, usually when they've been out on a Friday night drinking, Harry will Apparate them into Draco's bedroom. Draco shares a flat with Parkinson now, a fact which Harry hadn't known until the first night there when he'd come out starkers in the morning to get some water and found Parkinson in the kitchen in nothing but a bra and some knickers. They'd startled the hell out of each other. Harry'll never tell anyone, but Parkinson has a great arse.

He looks down at the copy of _Muggle Me_ in his hand, Draco eyeing him from the cover, and he smiles. "We're us."

Maybe that's all they need to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1023084).


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